Not So Bad After All
by Kara Jayne
Summary: Hank cleans up his work space waiting on Connor. What he finds opens his eyes to a better outlook on androids.


The day grows mundane at the Detroit Police Department, or it does for Hank. With no reported excitement, he and his partner sit across from each other at their respective desks, typing away last minute at built up office work expected from them at the end of closed cases. Sitting is becoming less and less of his forte. Damned Connor, the boy's been rubbing off on him more than he thought.

Propelling himself slightly further away from the computer, it's starting to feel like the time to all quits, and perhaps in a mental perspective, he already has. Really all that's happening now is a little keyboard pecking here and there, a glance from one item to another to sway his fellow officers from the idea that maybe he's _slacking off_.

By far comparison across from him, Connor's fingers roll across the keys with a gentle clack, clack clack. Is he writing a college essay? It sure as hell looks like it. Whatever it is, Connor can keep it. It's no wonder he accomplishes more in a day than any other officer there does in a week.

Brown eyes flit about the screen in an untraceable speed as Connor continues researching. With a brief pause, his hand reaches to grab the document by his side, eyes never leaving the lit display. In lack of grace, though, the stack floats to the ground, and at last, Connor's gaze leaves the computer as he gasps, ducking instantly to catch the fly-away paper as fast as possible.

When he comes back into view, Hank can't help but to notice a hint of unusual color in his partner's cheeks. _So androids __**do **__blush in blue_. And yet Connor promptly turns attention back to work, neatly straightening each edge of the document, ignoring and setting it aside as if it never happened. That sly little shit, trying to pretend he hasn't given any ammo for Hank to tease with. Connor's humanity is entertaining to say the least. It's an awkward, unorganized, and imperfect replication of the mess called reality. He's so new to emotions, and offers pure, unrehearsed reactions that even he couldn't control if he wanted to.

Speaking of it all, his desk _a wild, hot mess_ right now as well. Between the food wrappers, plastered notes, and dusty ledges, it virtually appears as if he lives there (although sometimes it feels like he does). Hell, even the trash bin itself is evidence by the lack of its use. Better now than never, he mutters silently to himself. Connor isn't stopping, isn't ready to leave despite that Hank _is_ his ride.

Desperate to pass the time, Hank grabs the small bin, wads useless paper, and chunks them, one by one. Better to start with the trash so he has room to organize all the other stuff, right? Following is an empty coffee cup from the breakroom, a few coke cans that he's positively sure isn't cleverly stashed enough away from the android's sharp sight, even though nothing's been mentioned.

Next is a small cluster of wrappers belonging to what _were _delicious, greasy, fast food hamburgers that Connor also warned him about, and oh is the rant still fresh in his memory! _Hank, the cholesterol levels in those are terrible for you! You can die of it, and I actually like working by your side, you know. Why don't you let me cook for you instead? _Hank scoffs. Connor, cooking? Sure, since his deviation, he can taste, too, but they _both _know the Lieutenant's gonna do what he wants to do, and Connor's futile efforts won't change his mind. Nor will Hanks' words stop Connor's attempts. Stubborn as a mule, they are.

A reach a little deeper in a cubby to the side exposes another unexpected item: a dog bone he'd bought for Sumo two weeks ago. Shit, that's where it was all along?! And here he'd wasted money on another one. Well, maybe not wasted, per say, seeing as how the mutt has another one now. The dog is entirely too spoiled, but who else was he supposed to shower the love left in his heart on before his investigation partner came along and healed him? Shrugging the discovery away, he puts it back in, only this time at the very front where he'll see it and remember to take it home.

Now that all the trash is gone, he has to make better with the space left (oh does it feel better already). Hank stacks the basketball cap on top of his headphones and mp3 player right beside the century old photo of his crew from the Red Ice Task force. Why hasn't he replaced the picture yet when it has circles and writing all over it like some teenage girl's highschool yearbook? Come to think of it, didn't the DPD catch a good shot of him and Con together? A fresh print may be in demand sooner than he thought.

.

The Japanese Maple tree is fine where it sits, although dust bunnies have developed around the bottom edge. Hank opens a thin drawer and stashes away the matches he's saved forever from Jimmy's Bar. They were initially reserved for when the man chose to pick up smoking again, but he became too lazy for that. Fuck having to get up every hour to go outside. Even depression wasn't enough motivation or reason fall into that trap and buy cigarettes.

The lieutenant neatly stacks his important documents, tapping each edge against the desktop for neat display and lays them gently into the basket they were meant to rest in. He'll go through them and file each appropriately tomorrow.

Lastly is the digital board pronged between the two connected stations. There's so many sticky notes he can barely see the white surface; hell, half of them were probably forgotten, covered up by reminders of new projects before old ones could be finished. Tearing them down, note by note, and stacking them onto his other palm, Hank plots that maybe he should get a planner instead. The post-it system isn't working _at all_.

Layer by layer, more of the board reveals itself once more, sections of white slowly coming into visibility till there's only one layer left. It's been so many years since these notes were even touched, they've probably already melded with the board itself. It's a wonder the sticky substance hasn't melted and ruined the screen.

Before he can rip the first piece of the last phase off, though, it's the context that grabs his attention, hand pausing over the words… "NO MORE ANDROID", tagged along with a large "X" above it. Just reading it radiates a sense of unjustified hate. The following ones don't do much justice to what used to be a complete lack of care, too.

"How is my driving? Call 1-555-IDONTCARE"

"If you're not a bartender, then go away!"

"If I wanted to be ignored, I'd talk to my ex-wife."

Wow, he's really shunned a lot away, denied himself opportunity, and he isn't getting any younger, either. None of these stickers actually express who Hank is anymore since the rise of the android revolution and their success. He does care about his driving. He doesn't want to live in bars, kill himself slowly in booze, nor chance that stray bullet in Russian roulette. And quite frankly, he doesn't give a shit about his ex-wife nor the distaste that happened between them. It's all in the past, and now he lives for today. This display before his suddenly-so-clear vision has no reflection of Hank's personal values anymore.

It's the last thing he notices that captures him the most, a written note in dry erase marker, outlined with a drawn square: _We don't BLEED the same color_.

Old eyes glance across the counter, capturing a moment of Connor's attention. Hank remembers exactly what was going through his thoughts when he wrote it: Cole, the loss of his son and how Cyberlife continued their attempt to add more to the existence that stole his purpose in life away instead of consoling and controlling them for mankind's reassertion of power in a fucked up world.

It's true, they don't bleed the same color, never will, but does it even matter anymore?

The second question is whether it'll actually wipe off cleanly or if time has set the words in permanently. Maybe the detective should be asking for a new board. The message was written in hate, regret, and biasty, elements that for the most part, drowned his soul in alcohol, television, and sleep. Nobody can, nor will, replace Cole, but fuck if Connor hasn't been the one to get closest to it. The android, the _deviant_, has earned an irreversible place in his life, along with the rest that fought so hard for the right of freedom. A forced cooperation with Connor opened his heart, opened both their eyes. He saved Connor and Connor saved him.

Connor immerses himself in work once more when neither have words to share beyond a thankful expression, and Hank spots focus and satisfaction all over his partner's face as each file registers in his head in seconds, pace faster than the old man could possibly dream of. A smile creeps on Hank's lips as he pays mind back to his own desk and yanks the aged stickers off the white surface, wadding them into balls, and tossing them into the trash can. Boy, does it feel good too! If Connor can learn how to start anew, so can he.

A little too much energy goes into the motion as the sound of the sticky surface ripping and thud of old, dried stickers against the bottom of the trash can perks Connor's attention again. When Hank rises back up in his chair, Connor's back to staring straight across once more, wearing a curious, concern-filled gaze this time. "Are you okay, Hank?" There's a distinct, familiar sincerity in the android's voice that's pleasing to the ear. Moments like this is what gives Hank reason to go on and he finds that the leftover written phrase takes on an entirely different mentality once all the remaining hate is gone.

The slate is clean again and he knows now that androids aren't so bad after all. "Yeah… yeah, I am," the man replies contently. "Just taking a good friend's advice and cleaning up a little."


End file.
